World of Oneshots
by loquat
Summary: Series of oneshots, some mine, some colabs between myself and a friend, some all her's. Various topics and pairings. Updates every Tuesday.
1. I'm Sorry

A/N: Takes place post-movie 'verse. I have never, currently do not, and most likely never will have any right to Transformers.

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><p>I'm Sorry<p>

We told each other that we would be twins, no matter what. We held that pledge, we kept it-and now, look, do you see what you've done? You've killed me. Shattered me into tiny pieces (Remember? Remember holding me close and vowing that no one would ever break me, because you were there?) and strewn them to the wind. Don't you feel regret? Can't you hear my screams?

Sunstreaker, why?

I read the data pad, but I don't really read it. The words pass straight through my processor, like the wind over a seeker's wings. Because I don't want to understand. I don't want to be standing by his empty shell, reading these accusations. They bite, cutting deeper than Prime's energon swords. I want to put the datapad down, but I can't. I just can't.

I remember, Sideswipe. I remember that day.

You were the one they always loved, back when we were younger. The charismatic one, always trying to coax a smile or a laugh out of those around us. Creator and Sire always like you more than me. You were the right sparkling, the one that always should have existed.

I was the bad one, always glaring and snarling at people, blowing up over the silliest things. You were the only one who could calm me down, who could convince me that it wasn't worth it to go crazy.

Our creators never trusted me. You were the one that they always wanted, their miracle sparkling. I was bad luck, a sign of poverty and loss. Sire truly hated me, sometimes. When he'd had too much hi-grade, or work had gone badly, or our mother had argued with him. He'd push me around, blaming me for the bad things that were happening to us. Remember, when he locked me in the closet, and I couldn't handle the closed space and started to scream? I could hear you begging him to let me out, to stop treating me like I was fragging trash. I heard him hit you. I think that was the first time either of our creators hit you.

But we made it through it all, Siders. We managed to survive long enough to get out of there, to get our own apartment. It was on the rougher side of Kaon, and we had to work every klick of the jour just to get by, but it was ours.

I started painting back then, buying art supplies with whatever tips and spare credits I could scrounge up. You'd hawk them at markets and street shows, earning us a little extra. It was perhaps the best time of our lives.

And then you met him.

He was pretty, and smooth talking, and you fell helm over pedes. I remember that first day, when you came in, and were practically floating. I was jealous, of course, but you were my brother. I was happy that you were happy.

But it went down hill from there. The first time I met him, he just sneered at me and brushed me off. I was taller than him by at least a helm, but he made me feel like a sparkling again, all awkward words and temper tantrums. We started fighting, too. It was never about him, but it might as well have been. You were growing distant, and I was getting angry. My world was crumbling before my optics, and it made me frantic that I couldn't do anything. I didn't want to loose the only thing I really had.

It lasted for another few orns. Then you came back, one day, with a couple dents in your chassis. I blew it off at first, but more dents kept appearing. We couldn't pay for them to be taken out, not with the rent and my art and whatever else. So they built up, until you looked like you'd been thrown off a cliff. There were scratches, too, and cuts in your armor. I started noticing, and I'd ask you. You'd blow me off, saying that you fell, or that you'd gotten into a scuffle with some stranger. If I pressed you, you'd get angry. I'd get angry back, of course. I was too stupid to notice the fear in you spark, the fear that I'd find out, the fear of what he'd do to me if I confronted him, of what he would do to you.

Then you came back with cuts down your arms, and an oozing gash in your shoulder. That was it for me. I think all of Kaon remembers it. I took you to a friend of Ratchet's, then hunted for him. I found him with a couple of buddies at a bar, talking about the "little whore" that he'd done in earlier. I lost it.

I never told you everything that happened. I just said that he'd never bother you again. But you knew. Ratchet and Prime are the only others who found out, though I think that Prowl knows.

That's when I made you promise. That we'd always be family, twins, sharing something that was more intimate than anything else in this universe. We'd always be there for each other, and come to each other's rescue no matter what. You promised with me, and then we left. Because there was nothing else for us there.

I'm so sorry, Sideswipe. I heard you calling, on the battleship. It drove me crazy, hearing you reach out for my strength, my help. But I couldn't give it to you, not now. I'm broken, after seeing all of this. I've lost what strength I had, that I used to hold the both of us up when you fell down. I couldn't do anything but listen to the constant stabs of fear, and pain, and grief.

I know who's gone. They're lying around me, covered by sheets or tarps. Those of us who aren't being kept under are numb, trying not to deal with all this carnage.

I couldn't reach you in time. Couldn't help you. Couldn't save you.

And I lost you.

I love you, Siders. I'll love you for my lifetime, and I'm going to miss you for every klick that I have left.

I'm so sorry.

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><p>My writing only improves when you review me! Please? Pretty please?<p> 


	2. Can You Hear Me, Primus?

A/N: Sorry this is late. This piece was written by my friend, Sunwing. She doesn't have an account yet, but she needs to get one. Help me convince her. I have never, currently do not, and most likely never will own anything having to do with Transformers.

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><p>Can You Hear Me, Primus?<p>

It's dark. I can't even see my hand in front of my faceplates, let alone the way out. I'm just stumbling about, wondering how I can get out of here. But no one's coming. No one even knows I'm here. And the links, the strings of my spark that connect me to them, are dark. A shade of gray that means we're out of range.

I'm alone.

And I hate being alone.

Most would contest that, knowing my habit of going off now and again to brood or think or just clear my processor. But it's different. It's not alone when you've got others hovering around the edges of your consciousness. It's not alone when you can call them back the moment you start to get scared.

I glance around, and whimper.

I hate the dark. Hate it with a passion.

Yes, I'm a Special Ops mech, but that doesn't mean I can deal with being in complete darkness. And most of the time, my team is there on the other end, just a comm. call away. I have night vision, or light leaking in from corners of vents. But this time, my night vision has been knocked offline by the fall, and my sensors that would usually help are malfunctioning.

I think one of my finials is broken off, and I know that's energon leaking down my leg. I can smell it, my lifeblood, my fuel.

If I die down here, who's going to tell them? Who's going to break it to them? And will they even know? Even now, I can barely feel them. And it scares me. I don't want to die alone.

I hate being alone.

This isn't fair. I know, I just know, that something in the darkness is going to get me. It's been that way ever since sparklinghood, when my clan was ambushed in the blackness of night and only me and a few others survived. Nightmares came after, and even now-even then, I suppose, because now I'm stumbling around in darkness-I can only sleep when a light is on to remind me that there's nothing there.

There's no light now, and Primus, I'm scared.

I shouldn't be. I'm a feared warrior, a deadly weapon, an asset to my cause-but that doesn't stop the fact that I'm alone in the dark.

Someone find me, please.

Please.

Please.

Please...

Please let me wake up and have this be a dream. Let them be there, with soothing voices and hands, so different than my own. Let them be there to sing the fear away, and to hold me in strong arms and to rock me to sleep again.

Oh, Primus, please. I miss them, and the dark is closer, and it feels like I can't breathe-.

But that's silly. I don't breathe in the first place. I'm not organic. I'll be okay. I have to be. I will be. I can't die on an alien planet, so far from home, with the cold and the darkness and oh, oh, alone-.

I shiver. I can't help it.

Oh, bondmates, can't you hear me scream for you? I whimper down the gray of the links. Can't you hear my fear?

But they're far away, back on Cybertron, helping the Prime. I volunteered for this mission to find the Allspark, and now I've lost my team and I've lost myself into the dark void. Fool. I should know better than to distance myself from the ones who keep me safe.

Please come find me.

Please, Primus.

This is Orion, and I'm begging you.

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><p>Reviews are greatly appreciated! C'mon, make Sunwing's day!<p> 


	3. I Love You

A/N: There's a poll on my profile. You should go vote on it and help me decide what to publish next. There's a lot of stuff! I have never, currently do not, and never will own any rights to Transformers.

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><p>I Love You<p>

I wish I could be like other mechs. I wish I could cry. I wish I could smile. I wish I could show emotion. But this is the role I play, and I must play it, because the Fallen demands it. Someday, though, I'll get out-I promise you that, Sentinel, as you die with your energon on my claws. Someday I'll break away from his control, and protect your son. And when I do, I'll avenge you, dear, betrayed friend. My friend who showed me how to love freedom.

Life used to be brighter. Clearer. I was happy, at some point in time, but those memories are like shadows. I can't see them in the darkness, the darkness that coats my armor like a stubborn layer of paint. It's stifling, like a blanket over an organic's mouth and nose, cutting of their breathing. It's slowly choking my intakes and my fuel pump, one bitter pang at a time.

Do you remember when we met, Sentinel? You were so bright then. So full of ideas. Back in those days, when the word "Decepticon" didn't even exist, we were civil. Friends, even. The very best of friends.

You were light and charming, on your way to the Autobot Senate or a commanding position in the army. I was a young science student, studying in preparation for an apprenticeship. Do you remember, Sentinel? How you looked at me, back in those days? What you said to me, when no one was around? The little touches, the secret smiles, your hand over mine when no one could see?

And what can I say? I was a data-pad bound nimrod, who didn't know an interface rod from his armor locks. My spark would pound every time I saw you, my fuel would rush, and I couldn't help but smile back. Frag it, I might even have said that I loved you back then.

But then I got older. Wiser. Your fingers lost their magic, your mouth began to taste sour. We drifted apart, as most friends did after they had gone to berth. We were still friendly, but it could never be the same. I had explored the inside of your spark chamber. There was nothing else for me to discover after that.

We feigned distance, more for the benefit of others than ourselves. I received the apprenticeship, and you were studying in the office of a senator. Our time became constricted, until it was impossible to even remain close friends. We told everyone that we broke it off because of that, to save ourselves the fights that would surely come later.

But it hurt. I don't know how you managed that melancholic nonchalance. I blew up when someone pushed me too hard, screaming until my vocalizer hurt, until my optics overflowed, until my mentor had to force me into a manual shut down so I wouldn't blow a system. No one asked me, after that. Most of our friends stopped talking to me, too. I ignored the first message you sent me, asking me why I hadn't done like we'd agreed. I didn't even open the ones that came after that. They were too painful.

And then, suddenly, you were bonded, and I was in the R&D department, and everything was going to the pits. I wasn't happy, back then. I can't say if I'm happy now, but at least the pain finally stopped. I'd learned not to let my emotions get the better of me, and it had served me well. Don't let them in, don't let them see who your really are. Be bitter and cynical, and show only the level of respect that is required to your superiors. It served me well, getting me promoted through the ranks quickly. But I wish that I could smile without smirking, that I could cry without having to break my optic crystals. It's too late to change, though. I ingrained it into my coding, until it was all that I could do.

I joined the Decepticons around the time that I heard your mate was expecting a sparkling. I was long past bitter and cynical by then. The only thing that saved me from going truly crazy was my trine. They anchored me to the ground, reminded me to trust those around me. I had to trust them, if I was ever going to fight with them.

I think you know the rest. I heard from somewhere that your mate went comatose, but you can't pull the plug because they need you too much. Your son, he must be in a youngling center. You'd never let him stay among the soldiers, to be blasted with stray fire and end up beside your bonded. I hope that he inherited your looks. You were so beautiful when you were younger.

I saw the words, as they left your lips, when I tore out your spark chamber. I finally captured your spark, and all I had to do was kill mine. Ironic, isn't it?

I asked you, long ago, to never say those words. To live without regrets. To never look back.

And I don't want your apologies. I don't want your pity. I don't want your love, or your sympathy, or you smiles, or whatever the fragging pit you think you can give me to make the tears stop running down my face. I'm trapped, Sentinel, and there's no word or look that will change that fact. I may have loved you once, but no longer. My spark isn't capable of love anymore.

Good bye, Sentinel. I hope you only remember the good in the matrix. I may even tell your son of you, when I find him. How wonderful you were. How much you made me ache.

I love you, dear one. Never forget the seeker who you thought you loved back. I know I'll never forget you.

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><p>Thanks for reading! I'd love a review, or five. They only help me write better, and more, and more often!<p> 


	4. Lost

A/N: A bit late, but it's still Tuesday! It is where I live, anyway. Anyways, thanks for clicking and reading. Warning: brief mention of slash. For two sentences.

I have never, currently do not, and most likely never will own any rights to Transformers.

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><p>Lost<p>

There were times when he regretted his function. If he had been a groundsmech, perhaps he would understand why they cared so much for other beings. If he had not been on the bombing squad, perhaps he would have seen his targets as something other than blank cities. If he had been something other, maybe he would've had a chance with the mech he loved.

The war had taken a turn, and he'd been put into a Gestalt, sent to earth, and long forgotten. He'd grown to like the mechs in his combiner, and to at least tolerate the rest of the soldiers who lived with him on earth. It was peaceful, if you can call any part of war peaceful.

But sometimes, when he was recharging, or taking the graveyard shift in the control room, or was alone in the quarters he normally shared with four other fliers, he would remember.

It was so painful to remember.

It always began with the screams. He couldn't remember how he'd been able to filter out the screams, even though his rational mind reminded him of the massive distance between his alt-form and the ground, and the roar of the air and his own engines and those of his comrades. But, alone and in the silence, all he could hear were the shrieks of terror and pain.

Next came the smoke, acrid and bitter, clogging his intakes and irritating his optic crystals with dirty particles. He'd cough and splutter, rubbing at his optics to clear his systems of the foreign contaminate that wasn't there, merely a phantom. He could feel the heat on his underbelly, washing his internal with a sickening warmth before he managed to close the trap door over the cavity that had contained the bombs. He and his squadron would bank, flying back to base, as they had every time.

And through the smoke, the fire, the screams, he'd hear a voice. A single, pained voice.

:Why?:

He was turning in darkness, searching, trying to find the speaker. He'd call out, only to have his words swallowed.

:How could you do this?:

A hand reached out, bright blue with white accents. He reached for it, grasping it, and felt himself being pulled through memories.

:What is wrong with you? There were civilians in those cities! Mechs and femmes and younglings and sparklings! How could you hold them accountable for the actions of a few bots?:

He saw the mech's face now, angry and hurt, but with concern lying deep beneath his features. This was the last time he'd seen Gauge, just a cycle before he'd gotten his orders to report to a shuttle for transport to earth.

:Don't tell me you were just following orders! You can refuse!:

He shook his head, trying to persuade the little mech that he couldn't, that it would only end badly-.

:For you. You'd be demoted. Primus, can't you think of someone besides yourself and your precious sky? You're killing innocent bots! How the pit can you live with yourself?:

He'd raised a hand, to strike Gauge, but he was moving away again, feeling himself being pulled back further into his memory bank.

:They've declared war!:

He felt the phantom pangs of surprise and fear echo through his systems, staring up at Gauge as he cycled air to cool his systems.

:No, I'm serious! I just came from the war room! All older students are going to be transferred to bases for emergency training and debriefing.:

Dread began to replace the fear, and he looked down at his hands, clenched together.

:I think I can pull some strings and get us together, but I don't know if I have enough time...:

He was pulling away again. There were just flashes now, suggestions of what had occurred. A touch, a smile, a laugh. A brief, chaste kiss, filled with searing heat. A sloppier version, filled with giggling and the taste of hi-grade. Heaving intakes and passioned cries as his sparkchamber unlocked, bathing Gauge in a blue-white light.

He finally stopped, and realized where he was. His conscious processor felt the first pangs of dread and guilt for what he knew would come.

:Wait! Hey, stop!:

He'd lowered his head, walking faster. There wasn't any reason to greet the science student. Why couldn't he just let him mourn in peace?

:I heard about your family! I'm so sorry.:

He'd rounded on him, snarling that it wasn't his business, that he should just leave him alone, that it wasn't even worth it anymore, that-.

He'd stopped thinking when he'd first felt Gauge's mouth on his.

"I-."

:Shh. It's okay.:

"I don't want-."

:You need it.:

"But I-."

:It's okay, I'm here for you.:

But he was moving away now, disappearing into the darkness.

"No, come back!"

:I'm so sorry.:

"Wait, no! Come back!"

:I love you.:

"Please, don't leave me!"

:I'll always love you!:

"I can't-I need-I-."

"Slingshot! Hey, Sling!"

He awoke with a start.

Silverbolt was there, gathering him up in his arms, as were the rest of his combiner. "You were having another dream, Sling," his leader murmured, rubbing soothing circles in the space between his wing joints.

"I-he-we were-oh, Primus!"

No one said anything as Slingshot cried silently, shaking. They had been together for so long, it was no longer necessary to say anything. Silverbolt began to hum quietly as he settled down, lying down with him as he began to drift back into recharge.

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><p>Thanks for reading! You should go review this now. You can feel your resistance weakening as you read this.<p> 


	5. Loose

Zomg, I updated! *Gasps!* Sorry for the long hiatus, I've been intensely busy for the past couple months, and haven't had time to look at anything. But I'll try to get on that more. Updates will still be once a week as long as this lasts.

Disclaimer: I have never, currently do not, and will never own any part of Transformers.

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><p>Loose<p>

I honestly have no idea why I ever thought it was a good idea to get cratered. All it ends up in is me waking up in the berth with a mech I barely know, with a thudding processor and a vague feeling of impending doom.

Frag, this sucks.

And now he's waking up, and I just groan and brace myself for impact. Gah. I hate high grade.

I always do this. The second I get on a ship, I start to fidget, waiting for debriefing to finish up so I can run off and find the nearest source of hi-grade. And where there's hi-grade, there's pretty bots. It's a very predictable schedule, really. Find a party, get smashed, flirt with a bunch of mechs and femmes, suck faceplates and bump and grind with one in a corner, then stagger off to their quarters and interface until one of us passes out.

Simple. Scheduled. Predictable. Stupid. I'm just lucky someone hasn't given me a virus already.

I don't know when it started. Wait, yes I do. That was a total lie. I guess I just like to tell myself I don't know when it started. It makes me seem less responsible, somehow.

I fell in love for the first time when I was barely out of the academy. They'd trained me to be a sniper, but a sniper can't really do much without a war. So I was bound to push datapads and general desk work until a skirmish popped up somewhere.

I'd been there a couple orns when he walked in. A civilian, though it you looked closely you could see the scuffs on his hands from using a rifle. He was tall, slim, his paint job a mosaic of dark and light greys and soft lavenders, the kind that would easily blend into the shadows. He had nice optics, too. A soft shade of gold, perfectly shaped.

Firelight, another combat specialist on desk duty, laughed softly when she saw me gaping. "That's Shadowthief. He's a bounty hunter, works part time for the army."

He handed his datapads to a mech at a desk across the room, then turned to look at me. I wasn't sure whether my fuel pump was going to grind to a halt or smash head long into the top of my chassis. He smiled, then turned an murmured something to the mech at the desk. The mech looked at me, blinked, then asked something. Shadowthief nodded, scribbling something onto a small note consul. He then left, whistling a cheerful tune.

The mech at the desk gave me the message later that day. _I'd love to meet you, if you want to do more than stare. I'll be in front of the building when you finish work._

We met. We went out to a bar. We talked. He made me laugh, like no one had made me laugh before. He bought me drinks, and we told each other about our work, our families, our lives. It was wonderful. And it lasted for what seemed like forever.

One thing that was strangely absent was that we never interfaced. Not even after I'd known him for a couple orns. When I asked him about it, he said that he'd ruined a couple relationships by jumping the gun, and he was serious about this one. I took that happily. It wasn't as if I was only looking to get in berth with him. And I was happy that he wasn't looking for someone easy or cheap.

I wonder if we ever would have done the deed, or if our relationship just would have fizzled out eventually. Whatever would have happened, we never got to find out. An underground gang that you all by now know as the Decepticons began to seize more and more power, until it wasn't a gang but a movement, and targets grew from individuals to whole buildings, whole quarters, even whole cities. Bots were being massacred every day, and we were called to fight.

It ended in an ultimatum. For him it was either me or celibacy. For me it was either him or the army. Neither of us chose each other.

I didn't much think of it, either, until they overran Iacon. Until we were sent on recovery, not rescue, missions. Until I found his corpse buried in the rubble of our apartment.

They took me off duty for a decacycle. It was only supposed to be a couple cycles, but I couldn't stop crying. Our medic had to force me into a manual shut down once. I wouldn't stop screaming, and it was keeping everyone up. They sent me to counseling, but I didn't improve much.

Then, on the eighth day of leave, a mech who'd tried to make a pass on me more than once came and told me how sorry he was. I looked at him, then crumpled, falling into his arms and bawling my optics out. I think I surprised him. He asked if he could walk me back to my quarters. I said yes. I don't remember why.

I'm sure you can guess what happened when we got there. Again, he was surprised, but he reciprocated. And, the next morning, when I went in to see my shrink, he made several comments about how much better I looked. I invited that mech to my berth for another decacycle. He brought hi-grade, and energon goodies, and we would 'face long into the darker hours of the night. I didn't let him back in after a twelfth consecutive night sharing my berth.

I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I just kept on doing it because I liked how I felt I could control it. The sadness, the anger, the guilt, the loneliness. It all disappeared when I crashed through overload.

It became a routine. About once every orn I would bed a new soldier for a decacycle or two, then make it clear that I wasn't interested anymore once it was up. I gained a reputation. They talked behind my back. I didn't care. Not enough to tell them off, at least. The only change came when I was stationed on a battleship. Then, all I had to do was wait until we docked with a new ship. Then, there was a completely new crop of mechs and femmes to choose from, most of whom hadn't heard that I was the loose bot of the ship, that I'd do anyone for good hi-grade and gifts.

Sometimes, when I'm not with anyone, I dream about him. Mostly, we talk. He's very friendly, very understanding of what I'm doing. Sometimes, I yell at him for being so good. He doesn't exactly make it easy for me to forget that I chose the army over love. Sometimes, I just let him hold me. Whatever happens, I always wake up crying.

The mech in berth with me is stirring. I think his name's Blaster, but I could be wrong. I often get there names wrong. He rolls over and looks at me. "Morning." He's cheerful.

"Morning."

"You wanna go get some energon?"

I shake my head. "Nah. I've got to hit the wash racks."

He sits up, stretches, then shrugs. "Suit yourself." He leaves without another word.

Huh. I shake it off, telling myself not to get used to it. Mechs like that don't pop into my life to often.

I do need to wash up, anyways. We're meeting with the Prime today. After all, we are docked on his ship.

I get up and leave. Maybe I'll be able to stay with Blaster for the rest of my time here. He's sweet, even if he is a bit too cheerful for my tastes. I think Shadowthief would approve.

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><p>Reviews are greatly appreciated, and only help my writing! Look at the shiny button! Shiny shiny shiny...<p> 


	6. A Question of the Living and the Dead

World of Oneshots will go on hiatus after the posting next week, so I can prep to post a longer piece. That should be up by February.

A/N: I have never, currently do not, and most likely never will own the right to Transformers.

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><p>A Question of the Living and the Dead<p>

Yes, I knew it was a bad idea to enter the old Necropolis Al for parts. Yes, no one's ever made it out of the Necropolis Al, even drones built solely for the purpose. Yes, it's said to be guarded by the souls of past Primes and their armies.

I just didn't realize how bad an idea could be until I was staring up at the legends come to life.

Another thing: the legends are really tall.

The gigantic figure of a prime that had been long dead stood in front of me, his plating a lifeless shade of grey, his optics burning white in the darkness. He spoke softly, menacingly.

:You dare enter the Necropolis?:

At least, I thought he spoke. I didn't really hear it with my audio receptors, so much as within my processor. It sends shivers down my backstrut. The sound was cold and rasping, like a gust of wind echoing through a long abandoned ruin. It contained notes of anger and foreboding, but also fear, frustration, disappointment and...loss. It was almost like I could hear the cries of thousands of lives being extinguished in his voice.

"Please, sir. Please. I'm hear to ask...a question."

I could feel, more than see, him frown. :It is neither the business nor the place of the living to consult the dead on their problems.:

"Yes, I know, sir. But I'm here to ask you about something that's as much the business of the living as it is of the dead."

I waited, trying not to shake. The place gave me the creeps. Even without the rumors and stories of bots coming down here to be lost forever, the look would be enough to keep people out. I thought it would look like a tomb, with burial slabs and altars and stuff, like the other Necropolises. It wasn't a tomb. It was a city.

Black, abandoned looking buildings stretched out in all directions, crumbling from millennia underground and uncared for. Holes gaped where doors once stood, maws that seemed to swallow up the light. The windows were filled with broken glass, very few panes still intact. The streets are laid out in a grid, and it seems to go on forever. At least, I couldn't see beyond a strange mist that gathered at each end of the street.

:A question of both the living and the dead.: Some of the menace is gone from his voice now. At least, I thought it was. In any case, I didn't feel as if I was going to collapse into a whimpering puddle of sparkling.

"You see, sir, there's this war that's about to start, and-."

:You want us to stop it.: Never mind. I might dissolve into a puddle after all. :Foolish mortal. Do you believe that we have the power to stop what happens to you from happening? Do you think that we do not have wars of our own among the dead? You would have done better to ask this of your Gods. I am certain others of your state are.:

I wanted to argue while he was saying all this. Really, I did. But when he spoke, it was as if a servo gripped my throat like a vice, squeezing until my vocalizer was partially crushed, and my vision had gone swimmy from a lack of energon to my processor. Only when he was done did the invisible force let go, letting me gasp and cough.

"That's not why I'm here," I managed to gasp out, gripping my knees to stay upright. His surprise was palpable, but he didn't say anything. I gulped, then rebooted my vocalizer, trying to clear out some of the static that was obscuring my words. I tried again. "I'm not here to ask you to fight for a side, or to interfere with what goes on up there. I'm here for advice. And you can listen to what I have to say and help me, or you can pretend to and then send me on my way. But don't think for one second that I don't understand the laws that separate your kind from mine."

It was bold, I know. And stupid. But I was angry, and I wanted more than anything to get my answer and then get out of that place. I at least didn't look at him while I was saying it. When I did look back up, several more bots had come to join him. They flanked him, curious and wary of me. Funny. I thought I was supposed to be wary of them.

:Then what is it that you want to know.:

If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that I heard impatience in his voice.

"The war's about to start. Everyone who can is being sent to help the war effort. Most people are fighting. They want me to fight. But I..." I swallowed. "My calling isn't on the battlefield."

:Your calling?:

"I...my mother, she was a seer. She told me, before she died, that I was not meant for battle. She said that my place was to honor the dead and cherish the living. But I never had the makings for a priest, so I don't understand what she said. And no one among the living has been able help me figure it out. So I thought...why not consult the dead?"

:Cherish the living, honor the dead.: I looked up at his tone. There was a touch of a smile on his face. :Indeed, I can see that you do not have it in you to take lives.: He paused. :Have you had teaching in anything?:

I shook my head. "That's also kind of why I'm down here. I've got to choose what I want to study, so they can give me as much of a teaching as they can before we start fighting. There's, of course, soldiers. I was never really good at tactics, or leadership, or engineering or science. But then there's also medics."

:Ah. I see. You want to know if you should take lives, or save them.:

I felt my face color. "When you say it like that, it sounds so simple."

:Is it not?:

I shook my head again. "Not for me. It's, should I be a service to my faction and take a position that not many want, or take the easy way out and choose the route that many are also taking?"

I felt two servos like ice rest on my shoulders. I looked up, to see the mech leaning down and scrutinizing me. I froze, feeling him look straight through me, into my processor, into my spark. Suddenly, he let go, standing again.

:As you said. It is not your calling to be a soldier.:

I looked up. The rest were leaving, disappearing into the mists. He began to turn to leave to.

"Wait! You mean-?"

:You have a healer's touch. It is not your place to take lives. It is your place to save them. Cherish the living. Honor the dead.:

"But-but-how can you be sure?"

He was fading into the fog now. He didn't look back when he answered.

:I cannot. But you are.:

I started to run after him, but he and the others disappeared. I was alone in a city that was only ever meant to house the dead. I shivered.

A flash of movement caught my optic. I spun, seeing a femme whip around a corner. I only caught a glimpse of the femme, but it was enough.

"Mom?"

But she was gone. I stood there, watching the direction she had fled. If I thought about it, I could have sworn that I saw her smile before she ran.

I looked over me, to where thousands of bots were going about their business without even knowing what lurked beneath their feet. I turned and began to trot to where I'd entered Necropolis A1. I'd need to talk to Ratchet today if I was going to start classes as an apprentice medic.

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><p>Thanks for reading! You should review! Only one more oneshot after this that you'll be able to review for a while!<p> 


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